And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor,- To lie in state while angels wait Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Before the Judgment Day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the Incarnate Son of God. O lonely grave in Moab's land! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well. HENRY ALFORD. THE AGED OAK AT OAKLEY. I WAS a young fair tree; Thai told of sunny days, And the kine's keeper, came They stood with tender thoughts, Ill knows, the joy that sinks- Ages have fled since then: But deem not my pierced trunk And scanty leafage serve Into the minds of men: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. ENDURANCE. How much the heart may bear, and yet not break! How much the flesh may suffer, and not die! I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh; Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn, All evils may be borne. We shrink and shudder at the sureon's knife, Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life, Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, This also can be borne. We see a sorrow rising in our way, And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape; we weep and pray; |